I'll be right back, someone named Nurse Ratchet is at my door....

Women are crazy. We are stark raving lunatics. I'm at the head of the line. I'm certainly not about to cast aspersions without taking my fair share of the blame.

I don't know what it is, but we are nuts. From the talking and talking and talking (someone stop me) about feeeeeeeeelings, and the over-analyzation of everything from, "did you see the way she looked at me???" to "what do you think he meant by 'hi'?", I'm assuming that if pussy didn't feel so good, men would have shot us all by now. Not that men are any better, but at least men aren't crazy. They're just dumb.

If I could explain why I start crying at a particularly touching kleenex commercial, I could probably become the next expert in quantum physics.

If I obsess anymore over whether the five pounds I put on last week is the reason why the cute guy at the deli didn't flirt with me this morning, or whether I should have had the yogurt instead of the muffin, or whether the new heels I bought are sexy enough, I might just jump. I actually sometimes hear the things that come out of my mouth, and have to ask out loud whether I really just said that or not. It's amazing.

And don't even get me started on the emotional holocaust I reign on anyone in my path the week and half before my period, the week of my period and the week after my period. (If you did the math correctly, that leaves about 3.52 minutes per month that I'm relatively normal. I'm probably sleeping.) That, and the crying. The insane amounts of crying because I dropped my pen, or couldn't find my favorite scarf, or because my boyfriend asked me where I put the bottle opener. I mean really.

But I've come to embrace the fact that as a woman, I'm crazy. Men are these weird, alien, logical creatures, whereas women are emotional. I can be logical. Ok, I can pretend I'm logical. Fine. But at least I can do it. Men can't even pretend to be emotional. And if they are emotional, you know they're just a bunch of sackless Nancy-boys. The last thing I want to see, again, is a grown man cry. Actually, the last thing I want to see, is me crying over another completely innocuous commercial, or me talking about why when he does this, it makes me feeeeeel like that.....or hearing the question of whether the pants my friend is wearing make her look fat. NO, your fat ass makes you look fat. Psycho.